To Catch a Killer
by Zan1781
Summary: A ten year old boy with obsessivecompulsive disorder returns home after school one day, only to walk into a crime being committed. Will Sara be able to reach him, in order to figure out what happened?
1. To Catch a Killer

**A/N: **As with a lot of the things that I write, this story has personal meaning to me. Timmy, one of the main characters, has obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD), and his mind is constantly repeating some of the things that he hears. Although I have had OCD for my entire life, I have recently begun to face it (okay, it isn't all that bad, but still, the constant internal dialogue can be tiring!). This story by no means depicts what everyone with OCD goes through on a daily basis, but some of Timmy's behaviors are a pretty accurate reflection of how my own mind tends to work. I'll add in other OCD behaviors as I go along, but… yeah! Also, this story is completely dedicated to my best friend, **Ann**. She'll know why (actually, she won't, but ehn!)! I hope that you all enjoy it!

---------------

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of CSI or its characters. That honor goes to the good folks over at CBS.

**Title: **_To Catch a Killer_

**Summary: **A ten-year old boy with obsessive-compulsive disorder returns home after school one day, only to walk into a crime being committed. Will Sara be able to reach him, in order to figure out what happened?

_---------------_

_One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four_, ten-year old Timmy repeated over and over to himself, as he rode the school bus home from school Friday afternoon. _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three four._

"Timmy, are you gonna come over and play with me later?" Benny, his best friend, asked him with a smile. "My mom made chocolate chip cookies this morning, so we can have some for snack, if you want to!" he excitedly added. "Ooh, and you can even sleep over! It's pizza night, you know!" he eagerly reminded his friend.

_One, two, three, four_. "Sure, sounds like fun!" Timmy flashed him a big, toothy grin. "I love cookies." _One, two, three, four, we can have some for snack, if you want to! _"Is your Playstation working yet?"

"Yeah, my dad got it hooked up last night. I can't wait to try it out!" the eleven-year old boy nodded his reply. "It's only a Playstation II, but—" he trailed off.

"But that's okay, because it's better than my old Playstation I," Timmy shrugged. _One, two, three, four, we can have some for snack, if you want to! _he thought to himself.

"Uh-huh," Benny agreed, as their bus neared their street. "My mom got me Final Fantasy IX for my birthday, too, so it'll be kinda cool."

"Yeah," Timmy cheerfully nodded, standing up, and slinging his book bag over his shoulder. _One, two, three, four._ "But there will be cookies?" he asked as an afterthought. _One, two, three, four, we can have some for snack, if you want to!_

"Yup!" Benny laughed, stepping out of the seat, and quickly moving toward the front door of the bus.

"But there _will _be cookies?" Timmy anxiously repeated his question, his obsessive-compulsive disorder forcing his mouth to voice a question that he already knew the answer to. _One, two, three, four. Stop! _he wanted to scream at himself. _Yup, yup, yup, yup!_

"Uh-huh!" Benny grinned, stepping off of the bus, and sprinting toward his home. "See you soon!"

"Yeah, see you soon, then!" Timmy yelled back, heading off toward his own home. Unlocking the front door, he immediately threw his bag aside, walking into the kitchen. "Mom? I'm home!" he softly called out. "Mom? Where are you?" _One, two, three, four. Where are you? Where are you? Where are you? But there **will** be cookies?_ he swallowed.

"What do you mean?" a male voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts, coming from somewhere further inside of the house. "What do you mean, you don't have it?"

"I mean I don't have it!" Jessica Stein, Timmy's mother, worriedly replied. "I would give it to you if I did, but I don't!"

Timmy froze in place, before slowly backing up in fear. _Don't have what? What don't you have? Don't have what? _His brain repeated over and over again. _One, two, three, four, but there **will** be cookies?_

"I told you what would happen if you didn't give it to me, didn't I?" the man roughly asked her.

"But please, I don't have it!" Jessica nervously told him. "Please, I just need some more time to find it… that's all that I'm asking for; just a little bit more time."

_Please, just a little bit more time_, Timmy nervously licked his lips. _One, two, three, four. I don't have it… I just need more time, but there **will **be cookies?_

"Cedric won't be pleased with you, you know," the man mumbled, slightly laughing. "But it's too late for all of that now; the time has come."

_The time has come, the time has come, Cedric won't be pleased with you, but there **will** be cookies? _"Mom," Timmy whispered, backing up even further, and quietly moving toward the front hallway. Gently pulling open the closet door, Timmy stepped inside, shoving his way into the back, and hiding behind several of his father's old jackets.

"I can get it for you!" Jessica desperately told the man. "Honestly, I can get it for you! I just need a couple of more days. Please, you don't have to do this!"

"Too late," the man grumbled. "And if your husband can't produce what we want, your little boy will be next."

_One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four_, Timmy kept repeating to himself, his eyes wide with fear. _Your little boy will be next, your little boy will be next._

"Please don't hurt my son!" Jessica sobbed, her voice cracking. "Please, I can get it for you; I can get it for you, I promise! Just give me two more days… one more day, or even a couple of more hours."

"No," the man bellowed, cocking his gun. "No. You've had time, and now you have to pay up. Cedric will be disappointed in you, Mrs. Stein," he added, as Jessica's pleas and cries grew even louder. "Goodbye," he callously laughed, as he pulled the trigger.

_One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Your little boy will be next, your little boy will be next, goodbye._

---------------

"The victim is a white female, approximately thirty years of age, named Jessica Stein," Sofia informed Sara and Grissom. "A neighborhood boy came over to find out why Mrs. Stein's son, Timmy, hadn't come over to play yet. He found the door ajar, looked inside, and saw blood on the floor. He ran back to his house, told his mother, who then called 911."

"The house has been cleared, I presume?" Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow at Sofia.

The detective simply nodded, resting one of her hands on her hip.

"So where is Timmy now?" Sara inquired, removing her sunglasses, and setting them down on top of her head. "Is he with the paramedics?"

"Actually, we have yet to find him," Sofia admitted. "Officers looked everywhere for him, but as of right now, he hasn't turned up."

"Well that's strange," Grissom commented, turning around to glance at the neighborhood. "And the friend is convinced that Timmy went home after school?"

"He said that they got off of the bus together, and made plans to play," Sofia replied, rubbing the back of her neck. "So yes, he's fairly certain that Timmy came home."

Slipping on a pair of gloves, Grissom clutched his kit tightly in his right hand, slowly walking into the house. "Where was the body found?" he questioned the detective.

"In the home office," Sofia immediately told him. "Officers found her prone body in front of the desk."

"Any outward signs of sexual assault?" Sara finally spoke up, following her two colleagues through the house.

"Actually, no," Sofia shook her head. "We obviously won't know for sure until Doc Robbins does the autopsy, but her clothes appear to be in place, and unmoved. The room is a mess, as you'll see, though," she continued, leading the way into the office.

"I'll say," Sara sighed, as she got her first glimpse of the room. Littered with broken glass, strewn books and papers, and overturned shelves and drawers, the office looked as if it had been ransacked by a group of assailants.

"Someone was certainly after something," Grissom calmly concluded.

"But what?" Sara asked, pursing her lips.

"That, Sara, would be the million dollar question."

Before Sara had the opportunity to reply, however, Sofia turned toward the study's door, narrowing her eyes. "Do you two hear something?" she softly inquired.

Grissom cocked his head to the side, listening for anything out of the ordinary. "You said that you cleared the place, right?"

"We did," Sofia confirmed, pulling her gun out of her holster, and slowly moving toward the door. "But I hear something."

"Running water. It's running water," Sara whispered, pulling out her own gun, and following closely behind Sofia.

"It sounds like it's coming from upstairs," Sofia pointed out, quietly walking into the hallway, and glancing up the stairs. With her gun held out in front of her, the detective cautiously climbed the stairs, her eyes never ceasing to look for any signs of possible danger.

Clutching her own gun tightly in her hands, Sara hesitantly followed Sofia up the stairs, a little bit curious as to why there would be running water in a house that had already been cleared by the police.

Grissom, trailing behind Sara, had a perplexed look on his face. "Where's the bathroom?" he asked Sofia.

"Down the hallway," she whispered back.

"It's definitely coming from in there," Sara mouthed, slipping to one side of the bathroom door, with Grissom standing just beside her.

Stopping on the other side of the door, Sofia made eye contact with her colleagues, before reaching a tentative hand out to the doorknob, and flinging the door wide open. "Freeze, Las Vegas Police!" she yelled out, the moment that she saw a figure leaning against the sink.

Timmy, sobbing, and standing on a stool in front of the sink, was busy scrubbing his hands under the steaming hot water. _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Your little boy will be next, goodbye, there **will **be cookies?_

"Son," Sofia quietly cleared her throat, slowly pointing her gun down at the ground. "Son, we need you to stop. We're with the police."

"I can't," Timmy whispered back, adamantly shaking his head from side to side. "I'm dirty. I'm so dirty, I'm dirty, I'm dirty," he quietly repeated over and over again to himself, as if he were the only person in the room. "I'm so dirty, dirty, dirty." And he was. Timmy's clothes were covered in blood. _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Goodbye._

---------------

TO BE CONTINUED 


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **First of all, I'd really like to thank everyone who took the time to read and/or review the first chapter of _To Catch a Killer_. Your feedback is always appreciated, and I'm glad that you enjoyed what you read! Second, I toyed with the idea of making Timmy's behaviors less… obvious in this chapter, but frankly, this is what my head is like. All of his interruptions might be annoying to read at times, but this is how I am hearing him speak, and how I am seeing him behave. I hope you enjoy this chapter!

---------------

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of CSI or its characters. That honor goes to the good folks over at CBS. Although most of the information about OCD talked about in this chapter comes from prior knowledge on my part, I did consult Answer. Com, as well.

**Summary: **A ten-year old boy with obsessive-compulsive disorder returns home after school one day, only to walk into a crime being committed. Will Sara be able to reach him, in order to figure out what happened?

_---------------_

**The Stein Residence**

"What's he doing?" Sofia quietly asked Grissom, while still staring at Timmy.

"He appears to be compulsively washing his hands," Grissom simply replied.

"From trauma?" Sofia blinked.

"The time has come," Timmy whispered to himself, furtively trying to scrub his hands clean. "And I'm so dirty. So very, very, dirty."

"Grissom," Sara spoke up, taking a hesitant step into the bathroom. "If we don't stop him, he could potentially wash away whatever evidence is on his hands."

"I understand that," Grissom calmly replied, tilting his head to the side in order to study Timmy's actions.

"Timmy?" Sara softly inquired, ignoring Grissom, and taking another step closer to the ten-year old boy. "We need you to stop washing your hands right now, okay? We need to find out if you're hurt or not."

_We need to find out if you're hurt or not, we need to find out if you're hurt or not. _"I'm not hurt," Timmy matter-of-factly stated, still desperately scrubbing his hands. _One, two, three, four. _"Why do you think that I'm hurt?" he asked her. "I'm not hurt. No, I'm not hurt." _One, two, three four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four._

Sara glanced at Grissom and Sofia, trying not to frown. "You have blood on your shirt," she quietly pointed out to him.

_Why do you think that I'm hurt? Why do you think that I'm hurt? _Timmy asked himself, feeling uncomfortable when his brain would not stop repeating that particular question. "It's from my mother," he mumbled. "But my hands are dirty, so I'm washing them."

"Well, can you _stop _washing them?" Sara asked, her eyebrow furrowing. "They're starting to crack and bleed."

"I know that, but I can't stop," Timmy anxiously told her. "They're dirty, and I need to clean them." _One, two, three, four. We need to find out if you're hurt or not! Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye. _"Very, very, very, very, dirty."

_What's wrong with this kid? _Sofia wanted to ask Grissom, as she stared at her former supervisor.

"Timmy," Grissom cleared his throat. "Do you know if you have obsessive-compulsive disorder?" he quietly asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Uh-huh," Timmy swallowed, still scrubbing his hands, until they were cracked and bleeding. "I do. Uh-huh." _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. **Will **there be cookies?_ "But I'm not hurt, okay?" he added, finally reaching over, and turning off the water. _One, two, three, four. _"Just dirty," he glanced down at his hands, wondering if he should try washing them again. No matter how hard Timmy tried, he could not seem to shake the feeling that he was still dirty, and that he needed to wash himself.

Grissom looked over at Sara, frowning. "We need to take him to the hospital to be checked out, and then someone will need to track down his father, so that we can question Timmy with an advocate present."

Sara slowly nodded, kneeling down in front of the little boy. "My name is Sara," she quietly informed him. "And I'm going to take you somewhere safe, okay?" she asked him, trying to smile.

"Okay, but there _will _be cookies there?" he asked, a hint of sadness in his eyes. _One, two, three, four. Goodbye. _"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say that out loud," he mumbled. "But… there _will _be cookies there?" he repeated, his frown only deepening. _Why can't I stop asking that? Benny has the cookies, not these people. They don't have the cookies!_

"Uh, yeah, sure, there will be cookies there," Sara tried to assure him.

"There will be? Are you sure?" Timmy awkwardly asked again, swallowing, as he stared at the ground.

"Positive," Sara smiled, holding out her hand to him. "But let's get you checked out, first."

"Okay, but I don't want to touch your hand," Timmy softly said, as he turned toward the door. "My hand is dirty, and I don't want to make your hand dirty, too." _So very, very, very, very dirty._

"That's fine," Sara whispered, standing up, and walking out of the bathroom behind Timmy. "I'm going to go with you to the hospital, though," she added.

"Okay, but will there be cookies there…?"

---------------

**The Lab**

"So where's Sar now?" Nick asked, leaning against the break room table. The entire team had spent hours at the Stein residence, and now they were back at the lab, preparing to process the evidence that they had gathered.

"She's still at the hospital with Timmy," Grissom replied, taking a seat at the table. "Someone needs to question him. In the meantime, we have our work cut out for us, too."

Catherine nodded, getting herself a mug of coffee, and sitting down across from her supervisor. "But before we do updates, I heard a few of the officers talking about the kid," she commented. "They said that he was repeating the same phrases over and over again."

Grissom simply nodded, rubbing his beard. "He has obsessive-compulsive disorder," he informed everyone, making eye contact with each of his CSIs. "And from what I can tell, it's a fairly severe case."

Blinking, Warrick looked around the table. "I've actually never met anyone with OCD before," he mused. "But damn, that stuff can be tricky."

"Wait a minute," Judy, the receptionist, cleared her throat. "I don't mean to interrupt all of you," she quietly said, pouring herself a mug of coffee. "But I've heard people talking about this kid, and I don't understand. What's OCD?"

Nick looked up at Judy, flashing her a small smile. "OCD falls under the category of an anxiety disorder. It's made up of two separate things, just like it sounds: obsessions and compulsions."

"Yeah, man," Warrick spoke up. "Have you ever worried about whether or not your house is locked, or whether or not you turned off your stove after making dinner?"

"Of course," Judy frowned, taking a seat at the table. "Everyone does that, though."

"True," Warrick conceded. "And keep in mind that this is stereotyping, but some people with OCD obsess about those things. They worry that they left the door unlocked, and that someone will come in and kill them and their families. They worry that they left the stove on, and that their house will burn down. Those thoughts will eat away at them all day, or all night, until they can't stand it anymore. The obsessive thoughts lead to the compulsions, which they do in order to help themselves feel better."

"Right," Nick chimed in. "The compulsions are based on the obsessive thoughts. They'll get up in the middle of the night—even if they are almost positive that the doors are locked and that the stove is off—just to check everything. But not just once, mind you. Sometimes, they will click the lock repeatedly, or move the stove switch on and off several times, just to make sure that the door is really locked, or that the stove is really off."

"That's… interesting," Judy nodded, trying to process what Nick and Warrick were telling her.

"My friend actually has OCD," Greg spoke up, raising an eyebrow. "She said that she does the thing with the locks and with the stove. But she said that sometimes, she'll go back to bed after checking everything, only to wake up again in the middle of the night, panicking that the doors are unlocked, or that the stove is still on. She'll get up, check and recheck everything, eventually going back to bed… only to repeat the process again a few hours later."

"Even after having checked everything multiple times?" Judy asked.

"Uh-huh," Greg nodded. "She's a smart woman, too. She's getting her master's degree in social work, so she knows all about this stuff. Most people with OCD know that their behaviors are irrational… they just can't stop the compulsions," he shrugged.

"So why is this kid repeating phrases, then?" Judy wanted to know. "I mean, if OCD relates to tangible things, then what's going on with him?"

"It's not just tangible things, though. That's the problem with OCD," Catherine replied, taking a sip of her coffee. Frowning for a moment, she peered into her mug. "This stuff is disgusting," she mumbled, before sighing. "In any case, people with OCD also like to count things, like the tiles in the ceiling, signs that they pass on the road, how many times someone says a particular phrase—"

"Except," Greg interrupted Catherine. "They don't stop thinking about what they're counting. They'll repeat the count over and over again in their heads, to the exclusion of all else."

Grissom cleared his throat, pursing his lips. "OCD may also include a need for symmetry, keeping things in order, being organized, touching things, repeating things, saving things, aggressive thoughts, a fear of dirt or disease, having a severe concern for the safety of others, and ruminating over questions that really can't be answered. Although many people in the world might do some of these things," Grissom continued, staring down at the table for a moment. "Individuals with OCD do these things to the exclusion of all else, as Greg just said. They think about the activities and questions non-stop, unable to focus on daily conversations, jobs, movies, or whatever else they might have going on."

"So this kid is repeating phrases that he heard at the crime scene?" Judy asked, just trying to clarify what she was hearing.

"Quite possibly, yes," Grissom replied. "That, and other things that he heard throughout the day."

"So he's a human tape recorder," Judy mused. "Fascinating."

"And possibly helpful," Greg smiled.

---------------

**Desert Palms Hospital**

"Can I wash my hands again?" Timmy quietly inquired, peering up at Sara. "My hands are dirty," he informed her. "So very, very, very, very, dirty." _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, goodbye. _"If I could just wash them, I really think that everything would be okay," he whispered.

"I'm sorry, Timmy," Sara replied, slowly shaking her head from side to side, as she sat down in the chair beside his hospital bed. "But I need to check your hands and clothes for evidence, first, and then you can wash them again, if you'd like."

"Really?" Timmy hopefully asked, his eyes widening. "I can wash them after you check me out?" _Really, really, really, really? One, two, three, four. Really, really, really, really? One, two, three, four._

"Really," Sara smiled at him, as she reached her hand out toward his. "But can I take a look now, please?"

Timmy doubtfully stared down at Sara's hand, swallowing. "Okay," he quietly acquiesced, trying to hold back his fear and disgust. "But then I get to wash my hands, right?" he asked.

"Definitely," Sara confirmed.

"You sure?" Timmy again asked, blinking back his tears.

"Positive," Sara flashed him another smile.

"So, after you check me out, I can… wash my hands?" the little boy sniffled, the fact that he couldn't stop asking the same question over and over again making him want to start crying.

"Of course," Sara repeated, gently grabbing a couple of swabs from her kit, and searching Timmy's arms for any signs of blood.

"I'm sorry," Timmy hesitated. "But are you sure that I can wash my hands? I don't mean to ask over and over again, and I don't mean to be annoying," he began to sob in frustration. "But can I?" _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four._

Sara blinked, studying Timmy's expression. She was by no means an expert on OCD, but she knew enough about the disorder to understand the war that was raging inside of the little boy's head—made much worse by the fact that he had just undergone something extremely stressful, upsetting, and traumatic. "Don't worry about it, honey," she softly told him. "You're not being annoying, and you can ask me whatever you want, as many different times as you want to ask it. And yes, you can wash your hands. Just give me one more minute, though," she smiled at him.

"Okay," Timmy sobbed, staring down at the ground. "But can I wash my hands? And can we have cookies? Are there cookies here? I like cookies," he mumbled. "Are there any here?"

"Yes, you can wash your hands," Sara replied, holding a q-tip up to Timmy's mouth so that she could get a sample of his DNA. "And I like cookies, too, so sure, we'll find some," she added. "Now I just need you to open up your mouth for one second. This won't hurt. And after that, I'll give you some clothes to change into, because I'll need to take yours back to the lab."

"Okay," Timmy frowned, opening up his mouth for Sara. "But then I can wash my hands? And we can eat cookies?" he asked, once she had gotten her sample.

"Yup. Here are some clothes for you," Sara quietly said. "Go ahead and wash, and change, and then we'll get some cookies."

"Four?" Timmy persisted.

"Four what?" Sara asked in puzzlement.

"Can we get four cookies? I like the number four," he mumbled. "Four for me, and four for you."

"I don't know if I can eat four cookies, though," Sara chuckled. "But you can have four cookies, sure."

Timmy tried to hide his anxious expression from Sara, once again staring down at the floor. "You don't have to eat them," he pointed out. "But I think that you should get four cookies. Four is a good number."

Sara furrowed an eyebrow, shrugging. "Sure, four it is. Now go ahead and wash up."

"Okay," Timmy sighed in relief, already moving toward the bathroom. _Your little boy will be next, your little boy will be next, your little boy will be next, your little boy will be next_, he thought to himself turning on the hot water faucet. "Cedric will be disappointed in you, goodbye."

---------------

TO BE CONTINUED 


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **I really apologize for not updating this story sooner. I recently started taking meds for my OCD and anxiety, and I guess I must have been pouring a lot of my anxiety into my writing, because now I'm having a hard time writing (I'm just too calm!). In any event, I'll try to keep updating on a more frequent basis, but I'm not guaranteeing anything. This story still means a lot to me, and I don't want to ruin it, by forcing myself to write when the words just aren't there!

---------------

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of CSI or its characters. That honor goes to the good folks over at CBS.

**Summary: **A ten-year old boy with obsessive-compulsive disorder returns home after school one day, only to walk into a crime being committed. Will Sara be able to reach him, in order to figure out what happened?

_---------------_

**Desert Palms Hospital**

"So can I ask you some questions, Timmy?" Sara asked, sitting down across from him at the cafeteria table.

"Sure," Timmy shrugged, nibbling on the very edge of one of his cookies. _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three—_

"How was school today?" she softly inquired, looking over at the little boy.

_Four. _"It was okay," Timmy mumbled, shoving another little piece of his cookie into his mouth. _One, two, three, four. Cedric will be disappointed in you, you know. Your little boy will be next. Cedric won't be pleased with you, you know. Your little boy will be next._

"What did you do?" Sara persisted, picking up one of her four cookies, and taking a small bite out of it. She knew that her questions really did not have a point, but she wanted to try to make Timmy feel more at ease around her.

_One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. _"I colored in a map of the United States today… in red, and blue, and yellow, and green." _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, but there **will **be cookies? In red, and blue, and yellow, and green. _"Those are some of my favorite colors," he added.

"Mine, too," Sara smiled. "Especially yellow; I love yellow."

"Me, too," Timmy flashed Sara a small smile, putting down his uneaten cookie, and picking up a brand new one to munch on. "Did you know that Oklahoma looks like a frying pan?" he asked her. "It has a handle and everything!"

"Yeah, that's kind of cool," Sara grinned. "I always wondered why they made the border like they made it."

"Uh-huh," Timmy frowned, beginning to nibble around the edge of his third chocolate chip cookie.

"So," Sara hesitated for a moment, thinking about how she wanted to phrase her next question. "Timmy, what happened when you got home from school today?"

Timmy shrugged, staring down at his mostly uneaten cookie. _One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Cedric won't be pleased with you, goodbye._

"I mean, you got off of the bus with your neighbor, right? And then what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Timmy quietly said. _One, two, three, four. Four, four, four, four_, his brain seemed to get stuck on that particular number.

"Did you walk directly home?" Sara tried again, studying Timmy's expression. She didn't want to push him, but she needed to know what he saw—or did not see.

"Uh-huh," Timmy nervously swallowed, setting the cookie down, only to pick up the fourth one. Taking a huge bite of the desert, he chewed slowly, stalling for more time. "So yellow is really your favorite color?" _Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, goodbye._

"It sure is," Sara smiled. "It reminds me of my hometown. I'm from California, and we get a lot of sun there," she cheerfully told him. "So… what reminds _you _of home?"

"You do," Timmy simply replied.

Sara raised an eyebrow, not exactly sure how to take that comment. "How do I remind you of home?"

"My mother is just as nice as you are. Or _was _just as nice as you are," he sniffled, setting his half-eaten cookie down next to his three other half-eaten cookies. "Oklahoma looks like a frying pan! And my favorite color is yellow! And Cedric will be disappointed in you!" he yelled out, before bursting into tears.

---------------

**The Lab**

"What have you found out, Greg?" Grissom asked, spotting the younger CSI in the doorway of his office.

Greg smiled, taking a step forward. "Did you know that Axl Rose had OCD?" he asked with a smirk.

"I did indeed," Grissom replied, steepling his fingers in front of his face. "And so did Beethoven, and the British poet Samuel Johnson."

"Are you boys talking about famous people who have OCD?" Catherine asked, walking into Grissom's office, her hands on her hips. "Because if you are, don't forget Ned Beatty and Francis Ford Coppola."

Sipping from a mug of coffee, Nick yawned, leaning against the door jamb. "Well then don't forget about Jose Conseco, man," he offered.

"Or Winston Churchill, composer Cole Porter, or financier J.P. Morgan," Grissom continued with his list.

"Or Carrie Fisher, Howie Mandel, and possibly even Einstein," Warrick spoke up, stepping past Nick, and into his supervisor's office. "But Grissom, in terms of the case, I think I'm on to something," he added, swaggering toward the desk, and tossing a file down on top of the already paper-cluttered surface.

"Oh?" Grissom asked, raising an eyebrow, and reaching for the file.

Warrick nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "I ran the prints from the house, and I came up with Jessica Stein, obviously. But," he excitedly continued, "I also found prints for a Jason Marley."

"Who's Jason Marley?" Nick curiously inquired, taking another sip from his coffee.

"Murderer and bank robber extraordinaire," Sofia answered for Warrick, stepping into Grissom's office. "And that's not all," she added, triumphantly waving her own file in the air. "He has a wife, and her name is Jessica."

"Damn, so Jessica Stein is actually…Jessica _Marley_?" Nick stated the obvious.

"Well ain't that a bitch," Warrick mumbled in surprise.

"Yes indeed," Greg confirmed. "Yes indeed."

---------------

**Desert Palms Hospital**

Sara ignored the confused stares from those around her and Timmy, choosing to keep her eyes focused on the terrified child sitting just in front of her. "It's okay, Timmy," she whispered, reaching a hand across the table the hopes of providing some sort of comfort for him.

"Don't _touch _me!" Timmy shrieked in agitation, instantly pulling his own hand away from Sara's reach. "I'm _dirty! _So very, very, very dirty! _Yellow_ is my favorite color! One, two, three, four!_ Yellow_ is my favorite color! One, two, three, four! Cedric, Cedric, Cedric, Cedric!" he continued to yell at the top of his lungs, pushing himself away from the table, and instantly turning around. "I'm so very, very, very dirty! _Yellow_ is my favorite color!" Timmy sobbed, trying to move as quickly as possible through the now deadly silent hospital cafeteria.

"Timmy!" Sara sprang to her feet, sprinting around the table, and making a bee-line for the little boy. "Timmy, its okay!" she tried to repeat over and over again.

"Your little boy will be next! One, two, three, four! Your little boy will be next! One, two, three, four! Your little boy will be next! One, two, three, four! Cedric will be very disappointed in you!" Timmy continued to cry, trying to blindly run away from his fear.

"Shh," Sara soothingly whispered, finally catching up to Timmy, and wrapping her arms around his shaky and still agitated body. "Shh," she repeated, as she gently fell to the floor, pulling him down with her. "Shh, Timmy. No one is going to hurt you. Cedric won't hurt you... I promise. You're safe now, shhh," she cooed to him, holding him as tightly as she dared.

"But Cedric—" Timmy trailed off.

"Will never, ever, hurt you," Sara finished his sentence for him, gently rubbing his arm with her thumb.

"But _yellow _is my favorite color!"

"Mine, too," Sara soothingly agreed, slowly moving her hand up to Timmy's face, and tenderly brushing away his tears.

"One, two, three, four!"

"One, two, three, four," Sara whispered, gently running her fingers through his hair, in the hopes of calming him down.

"Your little boy will be next," Timmy hiccupped, finally turning around so that he could bury his face against Sara's chest."

"Not this time," Sara quietly replied. "Definitely not this time."

"But Cedric will be disappointed in you!" Timmy continued.

Sara pulled Timmy more tightly against her body, slowly rocking him back and forth.

"But you'll be safe, and that's all that matters."

"Nuh-uh," Timmy swallowed, the tears still streaming down his flushed cheeks. "Nuh-uh, because Cedric will want the money."

"What money?" Sara quickly, perhaps too quickly, asked.

"One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four," Timmy sobbed. "From the bank. Goodbye!"

---------------

TO BE CONTINUED 


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I am so sorry for the delay in posting. The words aren't coming to me, and, well, you know how that goes. I really appreciate everyone's continued feedback and support when it comes to this story, though, and I hope that you enjoy this chapter! Oh, and there is some swearing in this chapter, just to give you the heads-up.

---------------

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of CSI or its characters. That honor goes to the good folks over at CBS.

**Summary: **A ten-year old boy with obsessive-compulsive disorder returns home after school one day, only to walk into a crime being committed. Will Sara be able to reach him, in order to figure out what happened?

_---------------_

**Desert Palms Hospital**

_What money? _Sara asked herself in confusion, trying to keep everything straight in her mind. _From the bank? There was a bank robbery? When?_

Sara's train of thought was immediately interrupted, as she felt Timmy squirming against her. "Your little boy will be next!" he announced, looking up at her through tear-stained eyes. "One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four, your little boy will next!"

"Shh," Sara cooed, gently rubbing his back as she gazed down at him. "You're not going to be next, Timmy, I promise you that. But I'm going to get you out of this room, okay?"

"Okay," Timmy hesitantly agreed, looking around the cafeteria in anxiety. _You've had time, and now you have to pay up, Cedric will be disappointed in you, you've had time, and now you have to pay up! _"But why didn't she pay up?" he distractedly murmured under his breath, before once again bursting into tears. "Your little boy is going to be next, and I don't _want_ to be next!"

"I don't know, Timmy," Sara softly admitted, very carefully getting to her feet, her arms still wrapped tightly around his shaking body. "But you know what? My friends and I are going to find out." Cradling him in her arms, she carried him out of the cafeteria, somehow managing to ignore the confused stares from the other visitors and patients.

_One, two, three, four, your little boy is going to be next, goodbye! _"But I don't understand," Timmy continued. "Why didn't she pay up? One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. Fourteen, three, ninety-two. Why didn't she? She could have! She _could _have! One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. Why didn't she, Sara? Huh? Why didn't she?"

_Fourteen, three, ninety-two? Are those numbers a part of a combination? _"… What are those numbers from, Timmy?" Sara cautiously asked, as she walked through the hospital, and back toward his room. "Are they… important?"

"Uh-huh," Timmy absentmindedly whispered. "Yellow is my favorite color. It's yours, too, right? Because yellow is my favorite color! One, two, three, four, one two, three, four, one, two, three, four. Fourteen, three, ninety-two."

"Fourteen, three, ninety-two," Sara hesitantly repeated, heading into Timmy's room, and closing the door behind them.

"Yeah," he agreed, burying his head against Sara's shoulder, his tears slowly subsiding. "Fourteen, three, ninety-two."

"Three is actually one of my favorite numbers," Sara mused, sitting down on the bed, still holding onto Timmy.

"Really? 'Cause it's mine, too," he mumbled. "One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four. Fourteen, three, ninety-two. My dad said that family is the most important thing in the world," Timmy confided in Sara. "So why wouldn't my mom pay up? Fourteen, three, ninety-two. She _knows_ that! She _does_, she really _does_," he insisted.

"I don't know, honey," Sara quietly replied, pulling away from Timmy long enough to gently brush the hair out of his eyes. "But can you tell me about fourteen, three, ninety-two?"

"Uh-huh," Timmy whispered. "They're the numbers that my dad told me never to forget. Family is the most important things in the world, and she _knows _that! She _really_, _really_, does! _Family _is the most important thing! Fourteen, three, ninety-two! Those are the numbers to the secret safe!"

**---------------**

**Las Vegas Underground**

"I don't like this, Boss," Petey ran a nervous hand through his hair, staring at Cedric, who was calmly sitting across from him. "I mean, don't get me wrong; I'll do the kid if I have to do him, but he's a kid, you know? A little boy. He reminds me of Sammy, actually."

Cedric raised an eyebrow, giving his associate an amused smile. "Are you getting all sentimental on me?" he asked.

"No, Boss," Petey mumbled. "But like I said, he's just a kid. A scared, little, ten-year old kid."

Cedric's smile immediately dissipated, as he glared at Petey. "Whose fucking father just happens to be Jason _Marley_, the prick who screwed me out of my money! He's not going to get away with that, so if I have to use the kid as leverage, I'm going to use the kid as leverage, got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," Petey morosely replied, staring at the ground.

"So do you know where the kid is, or not?"

Picking the gunk out from underneath his right thumb, Petey finally made eye contact with Cedric. "He's currently under police protection."

"Listen, dumb fuck, that's not what I asked you," Cedric angrily replied, staring at his employee in anger. "_Do_ you, or do you _not_, know where he is?"

Petey swallowed, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. _Damn it, you've pushed him too far this time! Don't kill me, please don't kill me! _He knew that when Cedric got into one of his "moods," he had no choice but to do exactly what was asked of him, the moment that it was asked—or else. "Yes, Boss, he's at Desert Palms Hospital."

"Then I suggest that you go retrieve him. Am I making myself clear?"

"Crystal."

---------------

**The Lab**

"So where does that leave us?" Greg asked the group, throwing himself down in one of his supervisor's chairs.

"Well," Nick shrugged, taking another sip from his mug of coffee. "We now know that Jessica Stein is actually married to Jason Marley, who was arrested for—what, exactly, Sofia?" he asked.

Flipping through her file, Sofia cleared her throat. "He was arrested for robbing the First National Bank. Apparently, the entire gang of thieves managed to get away, although Marley left behind a print or two. Several days later, he was picked up at his home, before he was able to leave town. The diamonds, the bonds, and the money that were stolen were never recovered, and no other accomplices were picked up."

"So… what's going on, then?" Warrick furrowed an eyebrow in confusion. "Did Marley hide the cash before going to jail? And more importantly, who is trying to kill his family?"

---------------

**Desert Palms Hospital**

Timmy stared at the wall of his hospital room, trying to comfort himself by slowly rocking back and forth. _One, two, three, four, yellow is my favorite color, Oklahoma looks like a frying pan, one, two, three four! _"Sara?" he blinked, slowly turning his head so that he could look at her.

Sitting in a chair by his bedside, Sara smiled at Timmy. "What can I do for you?" she whispered, reaching a hand out, and tenderly rubbing his arm with her thumb.

"I'm tired," he admitted, yawning as if to prove his point. "And—" he cleared his throat, almost in embarrassment. "I'm dirty. So, very, very, very dirty!"

"Well that's an easy one to take care of," Sara calmly replied. "Why don't you just go ahead and wash up in the restroom, and then take a nap?"

"But—" Timmy hesitated.

"What is it, honey?" Sara gently prodded him.

"I'm very, very, very dirty!" Timmy repeated, starting to get more anxious and agitated. _And I'm scared. Your little boy will be next! One, two, three, four!_

Sara cleared her throat, trying to read the little boy's expression. "Would you like some help washing your hands?" she finally asked him, raising an eyebrow.

Timmy quickly nodded, relief flooding his face. "Yeah, and you know what else?" he asked, already climbing off of the bed.

"What?" Sara couldn't help but smile.

"Yellow is my favorite color!" Once again blushing at the fact that he was still repeating the same phrases over and over again, Timmy looked down at the floor.

"Well it's mine, too," Sara patiently told him, ushering him into the bathroom. "Yellow reminds me of the sun, and of home. I'm from San Francisco, and San Francisco gets a lot of sun."

"Really?" Timmy asked, turning the cold and hot water on, and shoving his hands under the sink. "I like the sun, and swimming, and eating cookies—"

"Four, right?" Sara smiled.

"Uh-huh, _four_ cookies," Timmy vigorously agreed, turning the water off. "And I like video games, and coloring, and Oklahoma, 'cause it looks like a frying pan."

"You know what?" Sara suddenly asked, following Timmy back into the hospital room.

"What?" Timmy replied, climbing back onto his bed, and moving over, so that Sara could sit down beside him.

"My friend Greg _loves _video games," she grinned at him. "And he loves cookies, too."

"Four cookies?" Timmy wanted to know, laying down, and trying to pull the covers up and over his tiny body.

"Probably more like eight," Sara laughed, sitting down on the edge of the bed, and tucking Timmy in.

"Sara?" he hesitantly asked.

"Hmm?"

"Will you stay with me? Because… I'm gonna be next," he whispered. "The guy said that I would be next!"

"Of course I'll stay with you, Timmy," Sara whispered gently brushing the hair out of his eyes.

"One, two, three—"

"Four," Sara supplied for him.

"One, two—" he managed to get out, before the day's events forced him to fall asleep.

"Three, four." Glancing down at Timmy, Sara was relieved to see him fast asleep. _You need your _rest, she silently told him. Remaining perfectly still beside him for another five or so minutes, she continued to run her fingers through his hair, before making sure that he was completely asleep. Once Sara was positive that Timmy would not be waking up any time soon, she pulled out her cell phone, and hit Grissom's speed dial number.

"It's Sara," Grissom announced to the group, after having glanced down at his phone's screen. "What have you learned?" he immediately asked her, forgoing the usual pleasantries.

Closing her eyes, Sara tried not to yawn. It had been a long day for everyone, and unfortunately for them all, it was not yet over. "Timmy said that someone by the name of Cedric is going to kill him," she informed her supervisor. "And he told me that the combination to the 'secret safe' is fourteen, three, ninety-two, although he has yet to tell me exactly where this 'secret safe' is. What have you guys found out?" she then asked.

Grissom rubbed his chin, glancing around the room. "Jessica Stein's husband is Jason Marley, who is in jail for robbing the First National Bank. It all makes sense, Sara."

"Yeah, it really does," Sara whispered, afraid of waking up Timmy. "So now we just have to cross reference Cedric with Marley?"

"Not 'just,'" Grissom couldn't help but smile into the phone. "But yes. Are you coming back to the lab now?" he asked. _Or are you going to stay with the kid?_

"I think I'm going to stay here, actually," Sara quietly replied. "Timmy seems to know more than he lets on, and he randomly shares important information with me." _Not to mention the fact that he's scared, and all alone in the world. I know what that feels like_.

"Fine," Grissom nodded. "But be careful, Sara. I'm going to have Sofia send over several officers to stand guard outside of Timmy's room. If Marley has double-crossed Cedric, there's no telling what he will do."

Sara swallowed in uneasiness, sliding a protective arm under Timmy's shoulders. "I'll talk to you soon, Grissom," she finally said, before hanging up the phone.

"One, two, three, four, fourteen, three, ninety-two," Timmy mumbled in his sleep. "Family is the most important thing in the world, and she knows that. She does, she really, really does! Goodbye."

Setting her phone down on the bedside table, Sara leaned back against one of Timmy's spare pillows, her eyes slipping closed as she thought about the case. _If family is the most important thing in the world, then why didn't she pay up?_

"Family," Timmy murmured. "Picture."

With Timmy asleep, and Sara lost in thought, it did not take much for Petey to slip into the hospital room.

---------------

TO BE CONTINUED


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: **I would really like to thank everyone who has taken the time and effort to read this story, and as always, I appreciate your understanding and patience throughout the wait for the next chapter. I think that there will only be one more chapter after this one.

---------------

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of CSI or its characters. That honor goes to the good folks over at CBS.

**Summary: **A ten-year old boy with obsessive-compulsive disorder returns home after school one day, only to walk into a crime being committed. Will Sara be able to reach him, in order to figure out what happened?

---------------

**The Lab**

"So… why didn't Jessica Marley just give the man whatever he wanted?" Greg asked his colleagues, taking another sip of his now luke-warm coffee. "If it were between my friends and family and some money, I would do everything in my power to save my friends and family."

"Well, that's why you aren't a thug, Greg," Catherine pointed out. "Thugs don't tend to do everything in their power to save their families; they do everything in their power to save their money."

"So let's get to it," Grissom finally spoke up. "Let's go back to the scene of the crime, and do one more run-through. Perhaps with this new information in mind, we will be able to find the last piece of the puzzle."

"You've got it, Boss," Nick nodded, already heading out the door.

"We'll find the money _and_ the killer," Warrick agreed.

Five minutes later, Grissom, Nick, Warrick, Greg, and Catherine were all piled into several Denalis, with Sofia and Brass bringing up the rear in an unmarked police car.

---------------

**Desert Palms Hospital**

Petey stood in the shadows of the hospital room, his gun trained on Timmy. _I can't do it,_ he thought to himself. _I really don't think that I can kill you._

"But I don't want to," Timmy suddenly mumbled in his sleep, rolling over, and managing to bury his head in the crook of Sara's neck. "I don't want to, Dad, so please don't make me! Fourteen, three, ninety-two? Really? Fourteen, three, ninety-two? But why are you telling me the combination? I don't want to know what it is!"

Although Sara's eyes were still closed, and she was listening to every word that Timmy muttered, she instinctively wrapped an arm around his shoulders, drawing him even closer to her body.

"One, two, three, four, I want some chocolate chip cookies," Timmy announced, still sound asleep. "Four, four, four, four, your little boy will be next! Oklahoma looks like a frying fan, fourteen, three, ninety-two. Your little boy will be next!"

_Shit, _Petey again thought to himself. _You were there when I killed your mother, weren't you? Shit. I have no problem killing your parents, but what would Sammy think of me if I killed you? But if I don't bring you back to Cedric, Cedric will kill me, and he'll throw my body in the desert. Then I'll never get to see Sammy again._

"Family, Sara, family picture. But there _will _be cookies?"

"Hmm?" Sara stirred at her name, holding onto Timmy even more tightly. "Picture? What picture?" she softly asked him.

_Shit,_ Petey's attention turned to Sara, who up until then, he had thought was sound asleep. Quickly and quietly backing away from the hospital room's window, Petey walked into the bathroom, leaving the door open a crack so that he could still hear the little boy's ramblings.

"Sara?" Timmy whispered, his eyes slowly opening. "Are you alive, Sara? One, two, three, four, yellow is my favorite color, okay?"

"Yellow is my favorite color, too," Sara automatically replied, cracking her eyes open, and trying to smile at Timmy. "And yes, I'm alive. Are you doing okay, honey?"

"Uh-huh," Timmy mumbled, opening his eyes even wider in fear and understanding. "Your little boy will be next, but guess what?"

"You want four cookies?" Sara tried to guess, sitting up on the bed, and holding her arms out for Timmy.

"No, but fourteen, three, ninety-two. One, two, three, four. Fourteen, three, ninety-two. One, two, three, four, yellow is my favorite color!" Climbing into Sara's arms, Timmy turned around so that he could gaze at her. "But family is the most important thing in the world, and my mother knows that! She does, she really, really does! So why didn't she pay up?" he anxiously asked her, tears once again welling up in his eyes. "My Dad would have done anything to save my life, so why didn't my mother pay up?"

"I don't know, Timmy," Sara whispered, gently running her fingers through his hair, trying to calm him down. "I wish I did know, but I don't." _And I wish I could make you calm down enough to tell us what you really know._

"But Dad told me where the secret safe is, so my mother should have known, too!" he proclaimed, still staring at Sara.

Sara's mouth suddenly went dry. Clearing her throat, and then swallowing, she pursed her lips. "You… know where the safe is?" she tried to prod him.

_Shit, you know where the safe is? You know where the fucking money is? _Petey wanted to scream from the bathroom.

"_Family _is the most important thing in the world," Timmy continued, clutching Sara's arms with both of his hands. "_Family _is the most important thing in the world, and she _knows _that!'

"I know, Timmy," Sara whispered, now sitting up straighter on the bed. "Family is the most important thing in the world. And your Dad told you where the safe is?"

"Uh-huh, it's behind the family picture. The one above the fireplace?" he replied, licking his lips. "Fourteen, three, ninety-two, it's behind the family picture. The one above the fireplace! So if family is the most important thing in the world, then why didn't my mother just pay up? Family is the most important thing in the world, and he said that your little boy would be next!"

"You won't be next, Timmy," Sara soothingly whispered to the little boy, trying to scoot out from underneath him.

"Where are you going?" Timmy shrieked, clutching Sara even more tightly. "Your little boy will be next, remember? I don't want to be next, and your little boy will be next! One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. Your little boy will be next!"

"You're going to be safe now, Timmy," Sara immediately told him, once again wrapping her arms securely around his shoulders. "I promise you, you're going to be safe. I have to make a quick phone call, but how about we go get you some breakfast after I'm done?" _I have to tell Grissom the new information, and I have to tell him now._

Timmy thought about this for a moment, gazing up at Sara. "Can we… have some cookies?"

"Four?" Sara couldn't help but ask, a twinkle in her eyes.

"Four for me, and four for you," Timmy confirmed, his entire body slowly starting to relax against Sara's chest. "And are you sure that I'm going to be safe?"

"I'm positive."

"… Really? I'm really going to be safe?"

"Really really," Sara repeated, gently rubbing Timmy's back.

"So… we can have four cookies," he cleared his throat, blinking in embarrassment. "And… I'm going to be safe?"

"We can definitely have four cookies, and I promise you, you're going to be just fine."

"Safe?" Timmy persisted. "I'm going to be safe?"

"You sure are," Sara smiled, finally managing to climb off of the bed. Holding her hand out to Timmy, she pursed her lips. "But let's go get those four cookies now, and an apple."

"My mother would have made me eat an apple, too," Timmy confided in Sara, as she led the way out of the hospital room, her cell phone already open and up to her ear.

"Well my mother never would have allowed me to eat cookies for breakfast in the first place," Sara chuckled, punching in Grissom's speed dial number. When he picked up the phone, she immediately said, "The safe is behind the family picture above the fireplace, and the combination to the lock is fourteen, three, ninety-two. I'm going to go eat some cookies now."

"Four," Timmy chimed in. "Four chocolate chip cookies."

"Goodbye," Sara added with a laugh, as the two entered the elevator.

"Yeah, goodbye," Petey whispered from the bathroom, calling his own boss to tell him about the safe and the combination lock. When Cedric picked up, Petey filled him in, remembering to tell him about the police, who would soon be all over the Stein residence.

---------------

**The Stein Residence**

"That was Sara," Grissom loudly announced, calling all of the CSIs back into the living room. When his entire team was assembled around him, he pointed to the Stein's family portrait, which was hanging up above the fireplace. "According to Timmy, there is a safe hidden behind the picture, and the combination to the lock is fourteen, three, ninety-two."

"Damn, for real?" Warrick asked in surprise, striding toward the portrait. "Give me a hand here, Nick," he glanced over at his partner.

Nodding, Nick quickly moved to Warrick's side, gazing up at the portrait. "Timmy kept saying that family was everything to his father, so—" he trailed off, studying the frame of the picture for any possible trace evidence. "So I guess I wouldn't be so surprised if this is where the safe is."

Crowding around Nick and Warrick, Catherine took several photographs of the frame, while Greg took time to swab the picture for prints.

Moments later, Greg smiled. "Well, I'm definitely picking up some prints, so hopefully, AFIS will have a new hit for us."

"Ready, Nick?" Warrick then asked, once all of the evidence had been collected and safely stored away. Rolling up his sleeves, he gently started pulling on his side of the frame. "It has to be on a hinge or something," he mumbled to himself, looking for a latch.

"And it is!" Nick triumphantly replied, as the frame started to move away from the wall.

"When the safe is open—" Grissom interjected, "I want photographs of everything that you find."

"And when you find the money, I'll take it," Cedric laughed, suddenly walking into the room, his gun aimed at the startled CSIs.

"And then we'lltake the money _back_," Sofia interrupted him, her gun out in front of her, and Brass standing beside her.

"So goodbye to you," Brass sarcastically told Cedric, pointing his gun at him. "Goodbye to you."

---------------

TO BE CONTINUED 


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: **Again, I really apologize for not finishing this story sooner. It's hard for me to believe that I have been working on it for over a year now, and that I started it before I ever started taking medication for OCD. I hope that you've all enjoyed the ride, and I appreciate you coming along for the journey!

---------------

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any part of CSI or its characters. That honor goes to the good folks over at CBS.

**Summary: **A ten-year old boy with obsessive-compulsive disorder returns home after school one day, only to walk into a crime being committed. Will Sara be able to reach him, in order to figure out what happened?

---------------

**One year later**

"No way, man, that's not fair!" Greg grinned at his young companion, setting down his wii controller, and getting up from his place on the couch. "How'd you do that, seriously?"

"Sara taught me!" Timmy proudly replied, studying the big-screen television set. "Sara said that practice makes perfect, and she is _so _smart. Did you know that she's smart?" he asked, gesturing toward the kitchen, where Sara, Grissom, Warrick, Nick, and Catherine were all eating pizza and drinking soda.

"Yeah, Sara's smart," Greg chuckled. "But don't tell her that I said that, okay?" he conspiratorially whispered to Timmy. "It'll go to her head."

Timmy nodded his head in understating, once again staring at the television set.

"Is something wrong, Squirt?" Greg asked, noticing his slightly anxious expression.

"No," Timmy quickly shook his head from side to side, now staring at the floor. "But I wish that it was four, and not three. Four strikes are better than three, right?" he blinked. "I mean, I know that four is better than three, but I wanted to do better. I don't like three."

Greg knelt down beside Timmy, gently ruffling his hair. There were times when Timmy's obsessive-compulsive disorder still got the best of him, but Greg understood that Timmy just needed love and acceptance. "You still did well, Squirt," he softly told him. "Three strikes are better than two, and besides, we beat our team score, right? We should just try to have fun. It's all about the fun"

"Yeah, that's true," Timmy bit his lip, thinking about Greg's point. "We beat our score, and we'll do even better next time, right?"

"You bet," Greg smiled at Timmy.

Before Greg could say anything else, however, Timmy was off and running toward the kitchen. "Sara!" he eagerly yelled. "Sara, guess what?!"

"Hmm?" Sara raised a questioning eyebrow at Timmy, setting her half-eaten slice of cheese pizza down. "What's up, honey?"

"I beat Greg at wii bowling, and then me and Greg beat our team score!"

"Greg and I," Grissom automatically corrected the now eleven year old boy's grammar.

"Yeah, me and Greg, that's what I just _said_," Timmy rolled his eyes at Grissom as if to tell him _duh._

Sara put her hand over her mouth, trying to hide her amusement. "Well good for you, honey, I'm glad that you had fun."

"Yeah, I did!" Timmy excitedly replied, taking a seat beside her. "And guess what else?" he continued, glancing over at Greg as he walked into the kitchen.

"What?" Sara asked, still smiling.

"Greg said that you're smart, but not to tell you, because it would go to your head."

"Well I think Greg is just as smart as I am," Sara whispered to Timmy. "But don't tell him that I said that, because it will go to his head, too," she winked at him.

"What will go to my head?" Greg raised a questioning eyebrow, finally sitting down beside Timmy.

"Sara said you're smart!" Timmy happily told him.

"Someone has to teach this kid about secrets," Nick laughed, elbowing Greg in the ribs.

"Yeah, no kidding," Warrick good-naturedly spoke up.

"But Sara said that secrets are bad," Timmy pointed out.

"But some secrets are good to keep to yourself, Little Man," Warrick replied.

"Oh. Huh. Okay," he dismissively shrugged, looking back up at Greg with a look of love in his eyes—the look that only a little brother could give his big brother. "Wanna play more wii bowling, Greg?" he quietly asked, shyly slipping his hand into Greg's palm.

"Sure, Squirt," Greg smiled. "What do you say to us big kids playing against Warrick and Nick? Winner buys a round of ice cream sundaes?" he continued, raising a challenging eyebrow at both of his co-workers.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah!" Timmy immediately replied, the excitement very evident in his voice.

"Oh, it's on, man," Nick grinned at Timmy and Greg, immediately getting to his feet. "It's _on._"

Warrick simply stood up, swaggering toward the living room. "I'll be enjoying my hot fudge sundae with all of the works," he winked at Greg. "Especially because I won't be buying it."

"But we gotta just try to have fun, okay?" Timmy pointed out, taking a seat on the floor in the living room. "Greg said that we should just try to beat our own scores, and have fun. Oh, and that three strikes are better than two. But mostly just to have fun," he reminded everyone.

"Having fun is certainly important," Catherine agreed with Timmy, taking a seat on the couch in order to watch all of the action. "So are you guys going to just talk? Or are you going to play, too?" she teased the group.

"Okay, let's _do _this," Nick finally spoke up, staring at the television set. "… Uh… how do the controllers work again?"

Timmy just laughed, while Warrick rolled his eyes.

Back in the kitchen, Sara leaned forward in her chair, her arm gently touching Grissom's arm. "It's hard to believe, you know?" she softly asked him, watching Timmy play wii bowling with Catherine, Warrick, Nick, and Greg.

"What is?" Grissom asked, turning to look at her for a moment.

"A little over a year ago, Timmy entered our lives. I'll never forget the first time that we met him, when we found him scrubbing his hands in the sink. Look how far he's come now."

"With your help," Grissom kindly replied.

"No, with _everyone's_ help," Sara corrected him. "As a team, we managed to arrest Cedric, return the diamonds, bonds, and money to the bank, and put Petey in jail for murder. Timmy is—" she shrugged her shoulders, unable to put her thoughts into actual words.

"Timmy is going to be just fine now, Sara," Grissom quietly told her. "He's in a loving foster home, and you still see him a couple of times a week."

"And then there's Greg," Sara laughed, watching Timmy try to wrap his arms around the young CSI.

"And then there's Greg," Grissom agreed. "That was a smart move on your part, recommending him for Big Brothers/Big Sisters."

Sara slowly nodded, gently sliding her hand into Grissom's palm. "It helps to have someone to love. Greg needed someone to love and to take care of, and Timmy needed a friend. A brother, I guess; someone to trust, to hang out with, and to do guy stuff with. They're really the perfect match, don't you think?"

"Yes, they definitely are. As Lao Tzu once said, '[kindness in words creates confidence. Kindness in thinking creates profoundness. Kindness in giving creates love.' Timmy has learned how to trust and to love again, all thanks to you and Greg."

"No, thanks to everyone," Sara once again corrected him, smiling as Timmy gave Greg a high-five for getting two strikes in a row.

"Yes, everyone," Grissom agreed.

Resting her head on Grissom's shoulder, Sara continued to watch the bowling. "As Timmy always says, family is the most important thing."

"It sure is."

"So let's go see how our family is doing," Sara suggested, slowly getting to her feet, and glancing into the living room. Waiting for Grissom to stand up, she held out her hand to him, and led him toward the bowling game.

"Love you, Sara," Timmy grinned at her the moment that she entered the room.

"Love you, too, honey," Sara grinned back. _And they all lived happily ever after_, she thought to herself.

---------------

_Finis_


	7. Note

It's been years since I've written a CSI fanfic, and equally as long since I've watched the show (although I recently purchased the last three seasons). In any event, I really liked Timmy when I wrote _To Catch a Killer_, and thought that I'd like to see how his relationship with the team has advanced. You will find his sequel in _To Catch a Killer, Sequel _(very creative, ehn?).

Janet


End file.
